


and to me your life is a dying spark in the night

by Siera_Writes



Category: True Detective
Genre: Gen, Post Carcosa, Post-Canon, Synesthesia, This was written during a 30 minute free period, Which is why there is not a single reference to who's who, hopefully I wrote synesthesia with some degree of accuracy, hopefully it's obvious
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-15
Updated: 2015-04-15
Packaged: 2018-03-23 03:29:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3752812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siera_Writes/pseuds/Siera_Writes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His car is behind, more of a truck than anything else, wheels well worn, windows blacked out with reflections, grime and dust skirting it.</p><p>The lingering scent of diesel, rust-red and livid in his mind, combines with the crystalline cold cerulean of the night air, sparking indigo ripples in his awareness. He feels content.</p><p>Any minute now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and to me your life is a dying spark in the night

Previously, the sky had been a rich swatch of blues, gradually growing more inky, parchment of night's ever-spreading cloak. Pinpricks of light, sparking in and out of reality danced, yellow smudges cast by hunkered cities the only interruption to brilliant blackness, sodium flames against cold coal dark.

The hill is the sole vantage, no trees cracking the pristine hemisphere enveloping the perch. Thick grass is rampant, clinging limpet-like to every facet of the mound. The moon pays little heed to the earth, waning while observing the ethereal celestial dance, and it makes him want to etch the scene around him permanently to his soul, the calmness intoxicating. 

His car is behind, more of a truck than anything else, wheels well worn, windows blacked out with reflections, grime and dust skirting it.

The lingering scent of diesel, rust-red and livid in his mind, combines with the crystalline cold cerulean of the night air, sparking indigo ripples in his awareness. He feels content.

Any minute now.

He pulls out a cigarette, lighting it efficiently, well versed, and before long, cloying tar, sticky-sweet with a faded brown patina, is entwining itself with the mauve haloes.

A faint growling snarl sounds, the sound of a smaller, but less nimble car, heaving itself forth, up the difficult gradient. He smiles. 

At the edge of one of the clusters of buildings, yellow aura glowing strong, people cheer, as an array of many-coloured sparks fan out.

There's a crunch of boots on heat-choked dirt, patchily flecked with grass. He turns, and the figure steps out of the car, heedless of the unpredictable ground.

A single long draw burns the cigarette to ash, and he drops the butt to the brush, the faint cherry-red the only brightness in the dark.

It dies quickly.


End file.
